


Cat's Eye View

by priince22ofzen



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Other, Smut, Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/priince22ofzen/pseuds/priince22ofzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The name falls, over and over again, like poetry from her lips, and she can hear the ghost of an echo, his low, husky chuckle.  The way he says her own name, he calls her 'Rox,' because she's his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat's Eye View

He moves with expertise, despite the haze of alcohol - she can see it all clear as day through the darkness of that bedroom. She's had a bit too much, but what else is new? 'Drunk' is like a second skin, an old friend to her. The blonde female's breath is coming in pants now as his presence alone adds to her intoxication, flooding her senses, his fingers teasing along every inch of her body. 

She knows what she needs. He knows it, too. Her fingers curl back through his spiked hair, soft to the touch, and a content hum rumbles somewhere in her throat as her head tips back. Hair pools against the pillow, one of her hands combing into her own locks and pushing them away from her face. "Mmm..." A purr, of pure approval. Just like always. He knows all the right places to touch, to tease, and it works out just fine for her because she has the patience of a saint.

She could do this all night.

In fact, she plans to. 

A soft gasp escapes her parted lips, the black paint smeared slightly at the corners of her mouth where their kisses grew careless before, and in response he dips his head and closes chapped lips over her nipple. Teeth probe the nub, lightly at first, a bit harder when she doesn't react right away. It isn't that she's desensitized, by any means – she prefers it a little on the rough side. Come on, Strider, you should know that by now, she almost scolds him. If she does though, he might stop, and no, no she can't have that.

His name leaves her lips in an odd sort of sound, something of a mewl. Feline, high-pitched. Need. Want. Her hips roll up against his touch when his fingers brush up the inside of her thigh, blunt nails refusing to dig into porcelain skin. Trying to persuade him is never too difficult, she knows him so well by now, and the fingers tangled in his hair trail down along the back of his neck. Longer nails dip between every individual vertebrae as she feels them, her other hand lifting up as well, fingers curling as she catches those claws in his skin. 

He prefers his sex with a side of pain, too. She's known that for years. 

The hiss that escapes his lips when he pulls away from her breast speaks for him where his words are hushed, bringing something of a pleased smirk to her lips. He levels those eyes with hers, the glimmer across them almost feral for just a split second, and she is beyond okay with these results – if her fluttery giggle is anything to go by. 

It's right around then that he stops being so nice, stops going so painfully slow. His hands squeeze her hips in the only warning she'll get, rough palms on her thighs, thumbs digging into the sensitive flesh. He's forcing her legs apart before she can comply to the pressure there, an almost painful one that she doesn't mind even in the least. A little shiver traces its way down her spine and her neck cranes to watch him, to lock her curious eyes with his for that one moment before he goes back to working her. 

He plays her body like a finely-tuned instrument, and she doesn't need to wonder if he knows what he's doing to her. Hot breath fans out against the inside of her thigh, another little warning, before the sting of teeth and tongue assaults the skin there – there's sure to be a gorgeous bruise or two come morning, and oh how she craves the sight of it. Perhaps she'll see it when she's showering off the events of tonight, her fingers will brush over the marks, and she might shiver with the memory of how they got there. Like hell he'll let her forget. He sucks roughly at her flesh, shifting down a bit, biting harder, leaving more and more marks in his wake, even switching his attentions to the other side, leaving matching bruises there. 

The noises she makes are already too loud for what he's doing, airy moans and murmurs of his name. Urging him to keep going, wanting to give in to the twitching of her hips, but he's moved his hand to press down and refuse her such a movement. “Strider...nnghfuck,” her voice pitches when she breathes, nearly up into a squeak. The moment she makes that particular noise, he chuckles to himself from his spot between her legs, and he's moving again and she can feel his breath against her already-damp center and oohhh god it feels like everything she needs and not nearly enough.

She squirms when his tongue presses flat against her skin, dragging up along her slit and letting just the tip tease that precious bundle of nerves at the top. Her spine twists, her lower back tries to arch away from the bed, but no, his hands are still there holding her down. Instead, she places her nails just below his shoulder blades, digging in. Grazing up. Drawing blood, she can only hope. She can feel him shiver beneath that ferocious motion, and in return he dips back down. That tongue slips between her wet folds, and his teeth scrape against her clit and everything is fucking beautiful again.

Unabashedly, she moans. Loud and clear. It echoes off the walls of that bedroom, her head drops back to the pillow, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight. He laps at her inner walls, the talented muscle dipping in and pulling out again in swift teasing motions, every now and then drawing out to circle the very tip around her clit. Sometimes even sucking at it, making her question why the hell she hadn't had the damn thing pierced yet because this could be so much better. Soon he's exclusive to that, to swirling his tongue around the bundle, paying it all of the attention. 

He shifts again as her mewls and pleas rise in volume, moving to his side and keeping his mouth latched to her sensitive spot, until he can pull a hand away from her thigh. Familiar fingers tease her entrance for just long enough, just until her sharp gasp morphs into a “fuck, you're killin' me here,” sliding easily past her wet folds and driving up into her. He isn't gentle. She doesn't want him to be. Rocking her hips in time to the thrusting of his fingers, two at first and a third when she begs for more, she lets her fingers tangle back into his hair and tugs until he's humming his approval into her clit.

It isn't long like this before she's gone, crying out his name as she tumbles over the edge, the frantic movement lost to the white-hot bliss of her climax. The name falls, over and over again, like poetry from her lips as she rides it out, and she can hear the ghost of an echo, his low, husky chuckle. The way he says her own name, he calls her 'Rox,' because she's his.

And before she knows it, it's over. 

Her fingers pull away from between her thighs, her woven fantasy blurring out of focus, coming undone as she comes down from the euphoric high. Roxy doesn't bother opening her eyes, the back of one hand pressing against a forehead slightly tacky with sweat. 

Her own breathing is the only company in that room, after all.


End file.
